Falsification
by singsongsung
Summary: Rory/Tristan. Circa season one. He stops leering at her just when she realizes that she wants him to.


**A/N: **Season one orient. Inspired by my reluctant love of Taylor Swift's music and my Shakespeare classes. The song is Taylor Swift's "I'd Lie"; most references come from _Romeo and Juliet_. I've never written RT before so I'm a little nervous about this; I'm also thinking about a sequel. So please review to let me know what you think, and if you'd like more! :)

Falsification

_**i**__. I don't think that passenger seat_

_has ever looked so good to me_

_he tells me about his night, _

_and I count the colours in his eyes_

Covetousness morphs, oh so slowly, into camaraderie.

She's not really sure how it happens. _Why_ might be an even bigger question, but nonetheless, it happens. He leers a little less and her soft smiles appear more often and after a couple months, they find their friendship.

She finds that she genuinely likes him. He can twist anything into an innuendo, but he's got a sharp mind. He keeps up with her effortlessly, only slipping up when she references the Brady Bunch or a more obscure magazine. He's actually nice, beneath it all, though he still teases her constantly. He's a challenge, and she's always liked those.

She starts spending more time in Hartford, more time away in home, embracing this new relationship, dedicating herself to it. He allows her to force him into watching movies with her that she's had memorized for a long time.

Eventually he gets used to the fact that she's going to watch his reactions rather than the screen.

They find their spots. The garden at her grandparents' house makes her think of _Romeo and Juliet_ and they do their homework there. It's the place where he exclaims proudly when he gets the answer to a Calculus problem she struggles with, it's the place where she teases him about saying that he was 'horny' _en __Français_ instead of 'excited', and it's the place where they practice their lines for English lit, the place where he kneels next to her and says, _A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life…_

The den in his family's mansion is another of their haunts. That's where they watch movies on his theatre-size screen, where he teases her about all the food she manages to consume, where she wakes from a half-slumber to feel him laying a blanket over her, and where, one day as she tries to wrestle her copy of _Emma_ back, she finds herself pinned under him, breathless as his eyes fall to her lips.

She starts staying in Hartford after school almost every day. He drives her back to her grandparents' house or his own abode; to the mall so she can buy music for Lane or to a tiny café for some European coffee.

It takes her a while to realize that this is their time, and even if she wants to go back to the Hollow, he will drive her there.

It's sweet relief, after each day, to slip into the passenger seat of his car, to listen to music turned down low and his voice, lifting and falling for emphasis and he recounts the latest of his crazy trust-fund-kid stunts. He jokes around about not wanting to tell all in case he ruins her purity. She doesn't have a witty response because she's not really listening.

She gets lost in his eyes and she can hardly breathe, because only now is she realizing that she misses the way he used to look at her.

_**ii**__. he'll never fall in love, he swears_

_as he runs his fingers through his hair_

_I'm laughing 'cause I hope he's wrong_

He's compassionate. He hides it well, but it's there, and it's one of her favourite things.

He notices her glassy eyes and her silence. His goading tone fades off when he asks her what's wrong. She says it's nothing and stares out the window.

"Mary." His name for her carries a lot of weight. It gets his message across in the way a thousand other words could not.

"I think Dean and I might end things soon," she confesses. She's upset, but not like she should be. Still, it frightens her. This is her first love.

His chest puffs out just a bit as he questions her, is _he_ the reason?

"Tristan," she sighs, the word falling from her lips on an exhale, and she notices his grip tighten on the steering wheel.

"I'm sorry, Mare."

Rory grits her teeth together. She wants more than that. She's dying to know what's going on in his head. She wishes that she'd read all those stupid magazines that tell you how to read a boy's body language. She wishes she had fairy magic like in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. She wishes he would realize just how much she wants him to know what she wishes. "Yeah," she says quietly, staring down at her saddles shoes. "Me, too."

Trying to cheer her up, he declares boisterously, "I'm _never_ going to fall in love. Looks like it sucks."

He's so eager to make her smile that she laughs. Her hands ball into fists in her lap and she takes a deep breath as he smiles back, glad that he's helped make her happier. He doesn't realize that it actually matters if he's being serious or not.

"Yes," she whispers under her breath, too quietly for him to hear, "It definitely does."

_**iii**__. and I don't think it ever crossed his mind_

_(he tells a joke, I fake a smile)_

_that I know all his favourite songs_

"So what's our plan for today?" He grins, that cocky smirk of his. "Come on, Mary, I _know_ you have a plan. You always do."

"Of course I do. But what makes you think it's _ours_?" Her eyes glitter triumphantly as she watches his reaction. She wonders if he has any imperfections. He looks good even when _she_ wins.

"You wound me," he says dramatically, his eyes catching hers for a moment before he looks back to the road.

She reminds herself to smile. "I think I might just go home," she says quietly.

"What?"

She's not sure how much longer she can do this. And yet, she's sure that she can't…not. She sighs heavily and suggests _Casablanca_.

The song on the CD changes as he voices his agreement. He clearly still thinks that she's depressed over Dean. Taylor Swift's voice quietly fills the interior of the expensive convertible and she smirks knowingly. He tells everyone else that he thinks Taylor's hot, but she knows that he actually enjoys the music. He likes the country songs just as much as he likes Lupe Fiasco while he's working out and Bach later at night. He has excuses for all of his likes and dislikes, but she knows the real reason for them all.

Every single one. He loves upbeat rap, and he can actually belt it out pretty well with a bit of alcohol in his system. He finds Chopin's tunes relaxing. He likes Boyz II Men when he's worried about something, though he'd never admit it to anyone. He says he likes Citizen Cope, and he does, but he likes The Fray more. He listens to Jewel sometimes when his family is really stressing him out and it's his biggest secret. Modest Mouse cheers him up.

And he likes Taylor Swift not because she's hot, but because her songs remind him of her, of Rory.

_**iv**__. and, I could tell you, his favourite colour's green_

_he likes to argue, born on the seventeenth_

_his sister's beautiful; he has his father's eyes_

She gets cold halfway through _Casablanca_, and he heads upstairs to fetch her a sweater without a second thought.

He gives her his favourite sweater. Hooded with a zipper, deep emerald green with the softest lining. She smiles softly as she pulls it on. She likes to mock him about it, just a little bit – his birthday is St. Patrick's day, so it seems like destiny that his favourite colour would be green. She can't wait until March, until she can force him into shamrock shirts and crowns made of four-leaf clovers. She grins to herself but her eyes start to water.

"What is it?" he asks worriedly, frowning at her. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. Let's just watch the movie."

His deep blue eyes, inherited directly from DuGrey genes, flash dangerously. He forgets about the movie. "You're not _fine_. Don't give me that."

"I'm not giving you anything," she replies fiercely, because she almost wishes she was.

He glares back with just as much venom. He's got a quick temper, another, less pleasant attribute he's inherited straight from a long line of men with his surname. "You're too much of a prude, I know. But that's not what we're talking about."

Her lower lip juts out slightly, she can't help it. "Don't be a jackass," she tells him mutedly, cuddling into his sweater like it's a protective barrier.

"Stop making me," he retorts, and she remembers how much she loves it when he acts like a three-year-old, just for a few seconds of vulnerability. "Tell me what's going on."

"No."

"Don't be so stubborn." He takes two steps toward her, closing the space between their bodies and staring her down.

"Don't look at me like that," she shoots back. _Don't look at me like you want me_.

He shakes his head in disbelief. His eyes are stormy blue. She's always been so good with words, but she couldn't describe the heady shade of navy or the tempests brewing in his orbs if she tried. "What the hell is your problem?"

Rory's voice drops low. "Stop asking me that." If he frustrates her enough, the truth will come spilling out.

Ignoring her words or maybe taking advantage of them, he repeats, "What's up with you?"

The words are on the tip of her tongue. It's ridiculous, she tries to tell herself. She hated him. He was the bane of her existence for so long. He chased after her for months and she turned him down without fail. They've reached peace now. They're friends.

This is not the time for her to tell him that she made a mistake. If she had looked a little deeper, if she'd found out about his March 17th birthday and his fuzzy green sweater and his tendency to argue like a little kid, if she'd just known sooner…she would have coveted him right back.

"I…"

_**v**__. and if you ask me if I love him…_

_I'd lie_

"Uh-oh…" a teasing voice interrupts them.

Tristan's glare dissolves, his anger dissipating as he turns to grin at the owner of the voice. "What're you doing here?" he asks happily, and Rory finds herself jealous that someone else gets his joy while she's at the receiving end of his frustration.

His sister grins back. She's very pretty; when Tristan and Olivia are in the same room at the same time, Rory feels more inferior than she ever does. The two of them exude gorgeousness.

"Hey, you," Olivia greets Rory.

She says hi back and smiles in spite of herself. She'd never heard about Tristan's sister before she'd walked in to a movie night once and Tristan had jumped up and hugged her. She gaped at them while they laughed lightly at her confusion, hurrying to offer up an explanation.

"Livy, what are you doing here?" Tristan repeats. persistent as always.

"Can a girl not come home to see her brother?" she asks with a genuine smile and a teasing lilt. Lorelai would love this girl, Rory knows that. She's not exact Hartford's model child; hence the secrecy regarding her existence in general.

Olivia wiggles her eyebrows as if she's in on some kind of conspiracy, asking what's going on with the two of them. Her eyes drift back and forth between the two of them, and cracks a grin that's painfully similar to Tristan's. "That's some serious sexual tension," she comments easily, her smile growing more wicked. "Lover's spat?"

She feels suffocated. She unzips his sweater and shrugs it off, shoving it against his chest violently. He looks stunned, like he regrets ever yelling at her. She locks eyes with him just long enough to let him know that they won't be discussing this ever again. His brow furrows as she steps away from him, brushing past Olivia as she hurries out of the house.

"It's nothing," she says, and her tone tells them that no more questions are to be asked.

_**vi**__. he looks around the room_

_innocently overlooks the truth_

They're very rarely together in Stars Hollow. She doesn't associate the little girls dancing in turnip costumes and the gazebo in the middle of town with this boy. Those are symbols of comfort, of childhood. He is her challenge, an exotic introduction to the rest of her life. She is attached to Stars Hollow by history, bound to him by something that she has yet to name.

He's here on this night as a peace offering. She wants quiet and he gives it to her. As she lounges across her bed, reading John Steinbeck at a leisurely pace, he looks around the room, slowly discovering more details of her life.

What he doesn't know is that the small details that compose her character, that influence her choices, have changed. _Romeo and Juliet_ now holds a permanent place on her bedside table. A pink teddy bear that he won for her at Chilton's Charity Carnival sits where Colonel Clucker used to reside. She'd told him to name the bear. He'd come up with 'Pinky' and she'd mocked his unoriginality for the next hour; but in the end, the name stuck.

On her dresser, the box of cornstarch she stole after her first kiss with Dean has been replaced by a picture of the two of them. They're not standing close together and they're oblivious to the camera. They're in the middle of an argument, that much is obvious. Most people never would have framed it, but there's something about the way they're looking at each other that she's always loved. It's not that noticeable, lined up neatly next to photos of her parents and Lane, but she looks at every morning while she brushes her hair and picks out her jewellery.

She's stopped wearing the blue sweater Dean always said brought out her eyes; instead, her red sweater hangs next to her school blazer. She's started wearing it a lot since Tristan told her that red was scientifically proven to indicate power and spur arousal. He was teasing her, trying to make her blush, but their was something about the way he studied her as she wore it, as if he was dying to pull it up and over her head, that's made it a staple in her daily wardrobe.

To Rory, the changes are painfully obvious. She's flipped the page eight times but she hasn't read a single word; her heart is beating too quickly.

She expects to see realization in his blue eyes when he looks over at her, rapping his knuckles lazily against her knee in a purely platonic gesture. She curses herself for not wearing her faded jeans with the whole in the knee. His eyes are calm, and though he looks at her affectionately, it's not the kind of attention he desires.

He grins. "I knew reading would lose it's novelty after a while."

So blind. He is so blind. "Ha," she says dryly, pulling her leg away from his hand. "Come on," she adds, setting the book down. She can't concentrate anyway. "Let's go for a walk."

_**vii**__. shouldn't a light go on_

_doesn't he know I've had him memorized_

_for so long_

She orders food and coffee at Luke's while Miss Patty and Babette fawn over him.

It's almost ten minutes before he manages to escape, and she smirks as he joins him, sitting on the neighbouring stool and angling his body toward hers. "You enjoyed that," he accuses.

"Hell yeah," she giggles, and has to resist the urge to touch his arm.

"Tristan." Luke's greeting is brief and gruff, but a little bit warm. Odd as it may be, he seems to like Tristan more than he does Dean. Dean, in his mind, is a floppy-haired jerk. Luke is the only one who remotely understands that Tristan is the prince to her princess. He places food in front of them and shoots Rory a genuine, almost approving smile.

He looks surprised as he sees that she ordered for him. She pops a fry into her mouth and asks if that's a problem.

He squints down at his food as if it will answer every question he's ever had. "No, not at all," he says. "You ordered everything I like."

Waiting. She just waits for it. He has to know. She gulps down some coffee just to make herself swallow. She's terrified but a little relieved.

It never happens. He bites into his burger and she feels herself deflate.

He's so used to her turning him down that it'll never occur to him. She could write it on his forehead and he wouldn't grasp what she feels.

She was the one who set down the rules for their relationship. She was the one who screwed herself over.

_**viii**__. he sees everything in black and white_

_never lets anybody see him cry_

_I don't let nobody see me wishing he was mine_

He gets called out of class early Monday morning, his hair still rumbled in a way that drives her crazy. He should never brush his hair. She blushes as he walks by, calling her _Mary_ and blowing her a kiss. She has to fan herself with copy of _Othello_.

Twenty minutes later he's not back and she starts to worry. She hopes he's okay. She hopes he hasn't done anything stupid and gotten himself into trouble. Mr. Medina asks her to read Desdemona and she struggles with iambic pentameter and Elizabethan English for the first time in her life. She stops short and says that she feels sick. Because Mr. Medina thinks she's a good kid, and because he knows what it's like to suffer the wrath of Lorelai Gilmore, he lets her go.

She walks as casually as she can past the headmaster's office, but there's no sign of him. She wanders past his locker and past her own but he's not there. When she finally finds him, he's outside, sitting on one of the stone benches that have undoubtedly been donated by some famous author.

"Tristan…" her voice trails off and the question in it fades away when she realizes that he's crying. She's almost stunned into silence. "Hey," she practically coos sympathetically as she perches next to him, taking his hand in hers automatically.

"M'fine," he mutters defensively, trying to pull away from her.

Her concern gives her courage, and she reaches out, taking his chin in her hand and forcing him to look at her. His red-rimmed eyes break her heart. "Tell me what happened."

He has to take several shaky breaths before he quietly reveals that his grandfather died, and every bit of her aches for him. She doesn't like to imagine that pain.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, giving his hand a comforting squeeze.

Sniffling, he takes a moment to be ashamed of his grief, but she doesn't let go. She doesn't want him to have to hide things from her.

"You see," he points out in a bitter voice, "this is why I don't like to love people."

She thinks she can feel her heart crack. Impulsively, she reaches out, pulling him into a hug. He resists at first. This is pushing their physical boundaries _and_ he's vulnerable, two very unfamiliar things. But still, she doesn't let go, and eventually he gives in to her embrace, relishing the comfort. He lets her thin frame support him, leaning into her, his head pressed against her collarbone. She can feel her heartbeat and she's sure he can hear it, the escalating beat full of sympathy and the thrill that the heat radiating from his body gives her.

They stay like that for a long time, their breathing in perfect sync. She rests her cheek against his messy hair and thinks that if he wasn't sad, she'd be so happy.

The ring of the bell, signalling the end of class, pulls them back to reality. She releases him and he pulls away, wiping at his eyes.

She stands up but his hand captures hers before she can get anywhere. "Rory," he says, his voice thick and hoarse. He so very rarely says her actual name, and never like that. Her whole body trembles. "Thank you…"

He has more to say, but their classmates are coming out of the buildings. He should go home and she should go to her locker.

Giving his hand one last squeeze, an extra gesture in an attempt to help him through this, she murmurs, "Always." He might not even hear it, but she rushes on before he can speak: "I'm just…I'm going to go, okay?"

And her heart aches for them both as she walks away, her head ducked down.

_**ix**__. and I could tell you, his favourite colour's green_

_he likes to argue, born on the seventeenth_

_his sister's beautiful, he has his father's eyes._

He opens the door about two seconds after she knocks. He's been waiting for her.

His hair is rumpled and he's wearing that green sweater. She takes a step forward, tucking her arms under his, and hugs him before either of them say a word. She knows he'll think it's because she cares about him. She does, but she relishes this moment in a selfish way, too.

"You got here fast," he comments, thanking her with his eyes rather than his words.

She flashes an angelic grin. "My mom doesn't have much patience when she's driving." She tilts her head to the side as he closes the door behind her. "Why did you want to see me?"

His eyes are sparkling blue that makes her knees weak. "I have a surprise."

"Yeah?" she asks eagerly.

"Yeah. You know…my grandpa died. And you broke up with Dean. So I figured we _both_ needed a little cheering up. Sound good?" he asks, testing her patience.

She nods tolerantly.

Dramatically, he produces a pair of tickets from behind his back. He holds them out to her, awaiting her reaction with a proud smirk playing on his lips.

Rory very nearly jumps up and down when she sees what they're for. Her jaw drops and she beams at him, brushing her hair out of her face. "P.J. Harvey!" she squeals, and he laughs, happy to have surprised her.

"Happy?" he asks. A strand of hair sticks to her lips, glued there by her lip gloss, and he brushes in back, fingers stroking her skin as he tucks her hair behind her ear as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

She nods, unable to stop smiling. Her skin's tingling, but then she remembers: "You don't like P.J. Harvey!"

"Yeah, but…you do, right?" He's suddenly doubting himself.

"Of course, yes, but…how is this going to cheer _you _up?"

He shrugs, giving her a smile that could very well make her faint. "It's like how you like to watch me watch movies. Let me watch you this time."

_**x**__. and if you ask me if I love him…_

_I'd lie_

"Okay, just _one_ more question."

"_Mom_," Rory groans as she struggles to fasten her necklace behind her neck.

Lorelai takes two steps forward, bats her daughter's hands away. "To clarify, sweets, this _isn't_ a date."

"Oh," Rory remarks as if surprised. "Oh, sorry. You see, the first six times you asked me that question and I said _no_, I don't know what I was thinking. Yes, it is. Of _course_ it is."

Her mother pouts. "Don't be mean to mommy."

"Sorry," Rory apologizes earnestly before turning around and doing a small twirl. "You do I look?"

"Exactly like a girl not going on a date." Rory groans and Lorelai hurries to add, "You look beautiful, but not like you're trying for it." She winks. "That's my girl."

There's a knock on the door and Lorelai looks impressed. "Ah, he comes to the _door_. Emily Post _and_ Emily Gilmore would approve of your gentleman caller."

"He's not my…" She trails off, giving up.

Lorelai grins triumphantly. "For once, _I'm_ not the one in denial. Man, this feels good," she says wickedly as she walks off to answer the door. She pokes her head back into the room after a couple seconds. "And honey?"

"Yeah?" She feels shy as she meets her mother's all-knowing gaze. Her cheeks are hot.

Lorelai's smile is full of adoration and pride. "You look happy," she says softly.

_**xi**__. he stands there then walks away_

_my god if I could only say_

"_I'm holding every breath for you…"_

He doesn't get her back to her house until almost two o'clock in the morning, but Lorelai's not the kind of parent who will be angry about that sort of thing. She's exhilarated and overjoyed and she can _feel_ how starry-eyed she is as the tumble out of their respective doors. He wraps an arm around her shoulders to keep her warm as they walk toward her front door.

"Thank you," she breathes out in between happy giggles. "That was awesome."

"Yeah, it was." He grins. His eyes look almost as starry as hers and she finds herself reluctant to lean away from him as they walk up the steps of her porch and come to a standstill in front of her door. "You're beautiful." He says it so easily, like it's the simplest and most obvious fact.

She blushes, deep crimson flooding her cheeks. He's noticing her, in her jeans with the whole in the knee, her red sweater, and her crystal necklace. Her heart is flying.

"Look at you," he chuckles, pressing his fingertips against her warm skin.

She can't look at him, not right in the eye, and it's then that he remembers that their relationship has set boundaries he's supposed to adhere to. "Thank _you_ for tonight, Mary," he says with a smirk. He takes a couple steps backward before he turns around, heading to his car.

In her dreams she's daring; she runs after him and locks her arms around his neck and kissed him until he understands how she feels. In her dreams, her red sweater rides upward and when his hands land on her hips they meet bare skin. In her dreams, she can hardly breathe because she wants him so badly and his kisses are like a new kind of oxygen. In her dreams, she doesn't stand there on her porch for ten minutes after he's gone, longing to tell him to screw all the rules and chase after her again.

Because she wouldn't run this time.

_**xii**__. he'd never tell you that he can play guitar_

_I think he can see through everything_

_but my heart_

They get a fierce rainstorm one evening. The power goes out in his huge house. His parents are gone and they stumble around the house, laughing nervously as they search for flashlights and candles.

He lights a fire and they sit close together on the floor in the living room, staring into the flames. She finds his green sweater and pulls it on. They abandon their flashlights but leave the candles burning.

"Entertain me," she orders him to lighten the mood; the atmosphere suddenly seems romantic in a stifling way. She leaves him to come up with something as she phones her mother.

Lorelai's hesitant. She reads all the same things in the situation that the teenagers do. Candles burning, parents gone, nothing to do but…each other. Rory chokes on her own spit when the thought pops into her head, but luckily, over the phone, Lorelai hears nothing. Rory assures her that nothing's going to happen, and Lorelai chooses to trust her, grudgingly granting her permission to stay and wait out the storm.

She says, "Stay safe," and her words have a thousand implications.

To her complete surprise, he's sitting on the floor with a guitar in his lap, strumming away like he really knows what he's doing.

She hardly knows what to say as she sits down next to him, wrapping herself up in one of the blankets he found. "Play me Taylor Swift." She's teasing him, but her breathing is shallow and she can barely get the words out. She's not even a fan of country music, but she's a fan of the reasons he likes the songs he does.

He plays for her and she finds that her eyes are wet. She's heard the song on the radio and mocked it mercilessly, but when it's his fingers and his lips forming the melody, she falls in love.

When his fingers get sore he sets the guitar aside. They lie back together against the super-soft carpet and talk. They discuss life and literature, school and all the gossip surrounding their classmates. He's very insightful – Madeline and Louise would kill for his input.

She's half asleep when she tells him that he's still a mystery to her. He gives her a searching look that she sees through her fluttering eyelashes and replies that she still is, too.

Just before she falls asleep, his lips brush hers, and her hand springs up, grasping at his shirt. She pours everything she feels into that kiss. When they pull apart she's too scared to open her eyes and see his reaction.

"Sorry," he whispers, his lips still not even an inch from hers.

She wrenches her blue eyes open and sees the firelight reflected in his. For the first time in _months_ she sees lust in his eyes, mingling with the flames and she wants to cry again. Her chest heaves as she gasps out: "I'm not."

_**xiii**__. first through when I wake up is, _

"_god, he's beautiful."_

_so I put on my makeup _

_and pray for a miracle_

She wakes up in the morning only to have a flood of artificial light greet her eyes. The power's back on.

She sits up slowly, careful not to disturb him. Her neck hurts a bit from how she slept, her head tucked into his neck, her hand resting over his heart. She wrestles out from under the blanket and stands up. Now that the central heating has kicked in again, it's hot. She unzips his sweater and sets it on the sofa, where she sits.

Taking a moment, she just admires him. He is so, so _beautiful_ that it almost hurts to look at him. He can play the guitar and he likes corny love songs and he'll buy her concert tickets just because he knows it'll make _her_ happy. There's a lump in her throat.

She runs off down the hall, grabbing her purse on the way, escaping into one of the house's spacious bathrooms. She looks at her reflection and her tears spill over. They've only shared a handful of kisses and already she's thinking of _Romeo and Juliet_, of love doomed from the start.

Wiping away her tears, she washes her face and applies her makeup, from foundation to lip gloss. She's always been pretty, and makeup only increases her beauty, but even a slew of products can't hide the way she's feeling from her own self.

It's natural to wonder if he's worthy of her, the girl everyone puts on a pedestal. She's never thought before to worry about whether or not she's worthy of him.

_**xiv**__. yes, I could tell you, his favourite colour's green_

_he likes to argue, oh, and it kills me_

_his sister's beautiful, he has his father's eyes_

"Can I talk to you?"

He corners her at her locker, his body trapping hers there, his eyes a deep, dark blue.

She swallows hard and pays more attention than necessary to her books. "Sure," she says, forcing herself to use a casual tone.

"Rory." He places his hand on the books she holds, stopping her from moving. The bell sounds and the hallway clears out, surely and slowly, until they're all alone.

"I have class," she says stupidly, staring at his hand, partially covering hers.

"Screw class. Tell me what's going on."

"What do you mean?"

Tristan glares. "Giving me this act is really beneath you, Mary." She averts her eyes, pulling back her hand, but he won't let her. "You're avoiding me. Why?"

She meets his eyes with disbelief in her blue orbs. "And playing dumb is beneath _you_. You _know_ why."

"No, I don't!" he cries, exasperated. "One night you're telling me you're not sorry we kissed. The next morning, I wake up and you're gone. You've been avoiding me like the fucking plague every since."

Her eyes water as she stares at his hand, covering hers like it's meant to. "It was a mistake."

"Rory – what – _no,_" he says emphatically, gaping at her. "Look, I get that…that it was sudden. I get that we decided not to do this, but…you…you have no idea how I feel about you." He takes a deep breath and she thinks about what his voice sounded like when he was singing her a love song. "I want this."

"I do, too," she confesses instantly because it is sheer relief to say.

His eyes light up, sparkling ocean blue. "Okay, so…"

"But we can't." They can't because they're not supposed to. Her rules have always been there for a reason. She shouldn't fall for him. She's going to get hurt. He's too perfect and he's also not good enough, and it hurts her heart just to think about the risk. He's ready to be her Romeo but she doesn't have Juliet's strength.

She's already in too deep.

"Mary," his special nickname for her almost sounds like a plea.

She yanks her hand back and leans in to kiss him one last time before she runs down the hallway, letting her hair fall in curtains on either side of her face to hide her tears.

_Thus, with a kiss, I die_, she thinks.

_**xv**__. and if you asked me if I love him_

_if you asked me if I love him…_

"Hey, angel," Lorelai says gently as she joins Rory on a small, antique-appearing couch in a small sitting room at the elder Gilmore residence.

"Hi," Rory whispers.

"Y'know, kid…I realize how much like hell a Gilmore gathering can seem…but you like downright miserable." She pauses. "I'm going to go out on a limb here…and guess that this has something to do with Tristan."

"It doesn't matter," Rory says dismissively, staring at the floor. She wishes she'd brought a book to occupy the time, but the only thing in her purse is _Romeo and Juliet_ and she refuses to open it.

"Of course it does," Lorelai says gently. "Honey, talk to me."

She shakes her head violently, pressing her lips together until they turn white. "Mom, I'd really just…rather be alone right now."

Lorelai can respect that, but she's reluctant to leave. She stands, but she hovers over her child for a moment. Rory knows that it kills her mother to see her upset, but she's too buried in her own misery to put on a smile for Lorelai's sake.

Her mother runs her fingers through Rory's hair in a soothing gesture. "Baby. I don't want you to be afraid of love."

The words hit too close to home, and Rory's resolve dies as she crumples, bending forward into her lap and pressing her hands to get eyes. Her shoulders shake but she doesn't make any noise.

"Oh, _honey_," Lorelai says sympathetically as she sits back down. She rubs Rory's back lightly but doesn't overwhelm her by pulling her into a hug. She ducks her head down, trying to convince her daughter to meet her eyes. "Lorelai Leigh," she says softly, "you're falling hard for this one, aren't you?"

Rory drops her hands and takes a shuddering breath as she straightens her back. "I'm _not_," she insists because it's what's wrong for both of them, it has to be.

But her words are mangled by a tragic sob and it's the worst lie she's ever told.

_**xvi**__. I'd lie_

Hovering in the doorway, hidden by the shadows, Tristan watches.

He thinks about pink teddy bears and firelight love songs, watches as she tries to deny everything she feels. He thinks about falling in love and realizes that it sucks more to sit back and mourn what you haven't even tried than to dive in and take a risk. He thinks about kissing her on his living room floor and remembers that she's still the one he wants above all others. It's not about corrupting her anymore; he'll gladly let her corrupt him with her ridiculous TV shows and disgusting eating habits.

He observes her face in moonlight coming in from the window, as she places her chin in one hand, partially covering her face. Not only does she feel like what he's supposed to have, she is clearly the one he's supposed to want.

Nothing matters as long as she wants him back.

And he thinks, _See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand; that I might touch that cheek! _as her purse tumbles over next to her chair, revealing a copy of one of the world's most famous romance tales, the one he's read with her over and over in a secret nook in a backyard garden. He remembers debating epic romance with her, trying to set up perquisites for couples to be tacked on to the list.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't want to add _Tristan and Rory_.


End file.
